


Down to the Roots

by ilookedback



Series: Hyggetober Challenge Ficlets [6]
Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: Babyfic, Established Relationship, Other, acts of service, extremely soft and sappy, gender neutral reader, hot single dad frankie morales (tm), mild cheesy euphemisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26871253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilookedback/pseuds/ilookedback
Summary: Will your neighbors be mad if I start hammering this early?You hit the audio call icon and he picks up immediately.“Was that meant to be a euphemism? Your dirty talk needs work,” you tell him.He chuckles, and it’s been less than a day since you last heard his voice, but the low warmth of it still sends a delicious shiver through you like you’re hearing it for the first time again.
Relationships: Francisco "Catfish" Morales/You
Series: Hyggetober Challenge Ficlets [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1952407
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	Down to the Roots

**Author's Note:**

> For day 6 of my Hyggetober Ficlet Challenge, which is based off of [this prompt list](https://www.instagram.com/p/B201-j7ljdU/?igshid=1pflwcl5260me) and will span several Pedro fandoms. Today's prompt is "plants."

It’s a few minutes past 8:00 am when your phone buzzes with a text. He’s still _Hot Grocery Dad_ in your contacts—he’d laughed so hard when he spotted it on your screen one day that you haven’t been able to bring yourself to change it since, except to add a heart—and he’s asking, _you up?_

 _Is this a booty call?_ you text back. There’s a pause, and then a row of smirking emoji faces graces your screen.

You laugh and stretch under the covers, thinking about sending a teasing message back asking him to drive over and bring you coffee in bed, when your phone lights up again. 

_Will your neighbors be mad if I start hammering this early?_

You hit the audio call icon and he picks up immediately. 

“Was that meant to be a euphemism? Your dirty talk needs work,” you tell him.

He chuckles, and it’s been less than a day since you last heard his voice, but the low warmth of it still sends a delicious shiver through you like you’re hearing it for the first time again.

“I promise to never use the word ‘hammering’ in bed with you,” he says solemnly. “I was talking about the tool.”

“Your tool? I still can’t tell if there’s a double meaning here,” you joke.

He lets out a laughing groan. “It’s too early for this. I can’t talk dirty, I’ve got the baby with me. I’m talking about literal construction equipment.”

“Where _are_ you?”

“Standing in your driveway,” he says, and you fly out of bed to look out the window. As promised, he’s standing in your driveway with the baby on his hip. He catches the movement of your curtains and grabs her hand to send a tiny wave your way.

“Why didn’t you come inside?” You move away from the window and grab a pair of pajama bottoms to slide into.

“I’m not going to break into your house while you’re sleeping,” he protests. “That’s why I texted.”

“You’re a very thoughtful man, Francisco. What were you going to do if I wasn’t awake? Stand there silently for an hour?” Dressed enough now you won’t scandalize the neighbors, you head to the front door.

“Maybe,” he says. You can almost hear the shrug in his voice. “I figure if I get her started early enough she might have a lucrative career as a mime in her future.”

He’s. Ridiculous sometimes. And handsome, grinning at you from under his cap on your doorstep when you open the door.

“You’re ridiculous,” you tell him, but his smile is infectious and you grin back at him, leaning in to meet his kiss.

“Good morning,” he murmurs. “I like this hairstyle.”

‘This hairstyle’ is untouched bed head, and you’re about to retort something about people who live their lives in baseball caps judging other people’s hair, but you’re interrupted by the baby, squirming in Frankie’s arms and reaching for you with a babbled greeting.

“Hello, my love,” you greet her, and you finally move back to let Frankie step inside as you take her from him. She’s all soft baby warmth in your arms, scented with sweet milk and powder, and her tiny fingers clutch onto your hand.

You follow Frankie into the kitchen, watching as he pokes disappointedly at your empty coffee pot and opens your cabinet for the box of filters. It’s not quite coffee in bed but you’re content to let him brew a pot while you cuddle the baby. She might be ready for a morning nap soon because she yawns and tucks her head against your chest.

He goes quiet, focused on preparing the coffee, and eventually you ask him, “What were you saying about a hammer?”

“Oh yeah.” He helps himself to the brown sugar in your pantry and the milk from your fridge, gathering the supplies next to a pair of mugs. “We brought over a project to work on. You were saying the other day how you wished you could plant a garden but you don’t have the yard for it. So we’re making raised beds.”

You’re struck speechless for a moment, touched by the thoughtful act.

“You’re a sweetheart, you know that? You’re even sweeter than you look.”

He’s busy stirring sugar into the coffee but he glances over his shoulder at you. “I look plenty sweet.”

“But you’re even sweeter than that,” you say, and when he turns to bring you your coffee his smile is pleased, cheeks just this side of going pink from the praise. When he sits down you pick up his free hand with yours, tangling your fingers through his on the tabletop. “Thank you,” you tell him. “Do you need help? You said ‘we’re’ making them.”

“Well, it’s mostly me. She’s just here to tell me what to do.” He turns his attention to the baby, lifting a hand to flick her gently under the chin. “Tú eres la jefa, sí, mami?”

She burbles a sleepy response and he shakes his head. “Harsh. She told me to get my ass to work.” He sighs. “Let me drink my coffee, mija.”

You laugh despite yourself at the joke and he winks at you over his coffee cup, leaning back in his chair and knocking his foot against yours. His eyes shift down, tracking the movement of your thumb stroking gently across her back where you’re holding her, and his face goes thoughtful, single-focused again. For all his smiles and joking winks, this look is your favorite on him—the still, wonderstruck look he reserves only for her, this expression like he can’t quite believe his luck when he looks at her. You wonder sometimes if he can tell that you’ve got the same look mirrored on your face when you look at him, all awed gratitude for this man who enters your spaces and makes you coffee and builds you gardens where you can grow things together, nurtured by the work of both your hands and his.

You tell him, just in case he doesn’t know, in case he’s forgotten since yesterday, “I love you,” and he smiles like it’s the first time again and raises your clasped hands to his mouth to press a kiss to your fingers. He doesn’t have to say it back, because he already has in his text message this morning, in the warmth of his voice, in the easy trusting way he’d put his child in your arms—but he does anyway, _I love you_ whispered into the palm of your hand, and you let your coffee grow cold before you’ll risk letting either one of them go.


End file.
